


The Best Of You, Honey, Belongs To Me

by LittlePageAndBird



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cute, Darillium, Drabble, F/M, So Married, extreme fluff, stormy night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlePageAndBird/pseuds/LittlePageAndBird
Summary: They’ve been out plenty, but the gaps between their outings have been growing steadily longer. The days where they don’t venture beyond their garden are all melting into each other. He cooks for them, they sleep when they need to, and other than that it’s just this. Just them and an in-between that is so uneventful she couldn’t even describe it. And she certainly couldn’t describe what it does to her seeing her ageless god, her sunset, her madman in a box, living out a happily ever after. Not a date night, not a holiday, but a life.
Relationships: The Doctor/River Song, Twelfth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	The Best Of You, Honey, Belongs To Me

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble of fluff, because I miss them. Title from Hozier's "NFWMB". Not a direct follow-on but goes well with "But I'm Singing Like a Bird 'Bout It Now", another fic of mine, if you enjoy this one. Enjoy x

If someone had asked River to describe the last thing she’d ever expect to happen to her life, it would have unequivocally been this.

A mighty storm had brewed last night as they’d slept and it still rumbles around the cottage they live in together on Darillium, angry whip-cracks of thunder and hammering rain going unnoticed. She’s curled up in the armchair by the crackling fire, a blanket around her shoulders and a book open in her lap. 

She couldn’t say when the front door was last unlocked. They’ve been out plenty, but the gaps between their outings have been growing steadily longer. The days where they don’t venture beyond their garden are all melting into each other. He cooks for them, they sleep when they need to, and other than that it’s just this. Just them and an in-between that is so uneventful she couldn’t even describe it. And she certainly couldn’t describe what it does to her seeing her ageless god, her sunset, her madman in a box, living out a happily ever after. Not a date night, not a holiday, but a life.

The Doctor has a book propped on his chest while he sips from a mug of coffee, top-rimmed reading glasses halfway down his nose. Stubble a few days old casts a shadow over his neck and cheeks and he’s in the cosy hoodie he seems to favour, sunk into the sofa with his feet propped on the coffee table. She’s never once seen him in socks that match, and now is no exception - one burgundy polka-dots, one Tardis-blue with white stripes. And her hearts roll around inside her with how much she adores him.

She feels stupid for it, but this thrills her far more than any new planet ever has. She could stay here with him and whittle away the mundane years until she dies of old age. She loves, more than anything else in the world, being the person who gets to see him like this. It makes her ache. He potters around like he’s lived here with her all his life, and with every tiny thing he does she simply can’t take her eyes off him. 

She watches him with her chin propped up in her hand, fascinated by his stillness. Until his long fingers tap out a light drumbeat on the spine of his book, and a little smile plays on his lips a moment before his sharp eyes flick up to her face.

“How are you, dear?”

He asks that all the time now. He seems careful to check on her in ways that she can’t just answer yes to, can’t dismiss with a quick lie.

Doesn’t stop her trying, though. “I’m good, sweetie.” She flashes him a quick smile, but as her eyes fall back to her book she feels him looking at her in that way of his. “What?”

His eyebrows quirk. “You haven’t turned a page for forty-five minutes.”

She sighs. So tuned into everything, even when he’s all but switched off. Damn him.

“Do you want to go out somewhere?” he asks.

“No.” She clears her throat when it comes out a bit more abruptly than she’d intended, cutting off his question. If they go out he’s almost definitely going to put a suit on and shave and brush his hair, and she really can’t be having that. 

A corner of his mouth curls up. “No?”

“I’m reading.” She turns a page in a way that she hopes looks convincing. If he susses out that she’d rather be nowhere else in the entire universe than sitting here staring at him like a schoolgirl, she might just have to kill him to save the embarrassment.

He goes back to his book, a smirk on his face. “I know I’m pretty,” he says dryly without looking up. “But you ought to consider taking up a hobby or two while we’re here.”

God, she hates him. “Shut up.” She throws a cushion at his head and gets to her feet, wandering to the window overlooking the garden so he can’t see her blush.

She watches the rain lash against the glass. Thunderclouds have swallowed up the stars, and the bruising wind throws the song of the Towers across the valley. The monoliths weather the storm, two immovable giants lit up by incredible flashes of lightning on the horizon.

Here in the warm, lamplit safety of their home, far away from everything, she’s beginning to understand what it feels like to get enough rest, and not ache from running, and have someone living out their days right beside yours. She feels slow and sleepy, like something in her is steadily unwinding. 

Her husband appears next to her in the reflection. When she turns to him he bops the tip of her nose, a cheeky glint in his eye like he knows damn well she’s a sucker for it. “What are you thinking, River-runs-deep?”

She chuckles. He’s always been fond of calling her that when she’s quiet. His knuckles stroke the dip in her back lightly, and a buzzing warmth blooms in her stomach. They’re still passionate after all these years - every flat surface in this cottage has been meticulously christened - but it’s the small gestures that floor her somehow. Those tiny affections that were all too rare before because of too much time between them, or not enough. The grand, universe-shattering declarations had come easier to them but the little things always felt just out of reach, too full of promise for a pace that could never be set.

The way he touches her now, here, it still makes her shiver. It’s the confident, leisurely kind of way you can only touch a person when you’ve got nowhere else to be. 

She snuggles into his side, nudging her nose against his shoulder and breathing deeply. His hoodie smells like coffee and jelly babies. “It feels good not to be out in the storm for once,” she murmurs.

He presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “It certainly does.” 

She smiles at their reflection in the glass. Not gods, or monarchs, or warriors. Just two unremarkable people.   
  



End file.
